Author's Note: And here's part 2! Rejoice, friends; here's the Faberry smut you've been patiently waiting for (if you haven't, you're just lying to yourself). Also contains a ridiculous amount of Faberry fluff that I hope makes up for the waiting.

Rachel Berry has never liked labels.

As the daughter of two gay men in a small town, she's battled labels, preconceived notions, and what-have-you almost since the day she was born. She's grown up with hurtful nicknames and things being thrown at her…

… and that's not including the abuse directed at her for simply being argyle-wearing, constantly-singing, Rachel Berry.

Her life is filled with hardships, but not so insurmountable that she wouldn't inevitably succeed (just enough to pad out her biography with riveting details of how she overcame said hardships). But it would have been truly unbearable if she'd been anything but completely, utterly heterosexual.

She thinks Finn Hudson in his football uniform is the best thing since facon, and Noah Puckerman singing while playing his guitar makes her want to swoon into his rugged arms. But Rachel's eyes also follow Brittany Pierce's legs when she dances, her tiny Cheerios skirt lifting to show even more skin. She gets hot under the collar listening to Santana sing.

Rachel doesn't believe in labels and numbers and points on the Kinsey scale. She's just attracted to talent, good looks, and gender; in that order.

Anyway, it didn't matter. Until recently, she lived in Lima, Ohio; a place that wasn't known for its open-mindedness with regards to sexual orientation (and yet, managed to produce the sexually and racially diverse William McKinley High, Class of 2012). It made sense that she should only begin to explore her sexuality after moving to the city of her dreams, even if her experimentation began completely by accident when she woke up naked next to Santana Lopez.

She prided herself on not having panicked. She'd practiced for the myriad of awkward social situations she was certain to encounter in the real world. Waking up reeking of alcohol and sex while cuddling with Santana was – admittedly – not one of the situations she'd rehearsed but Rachel was fairly confident in her improv skills.

The difficult part was deciding what Santana Lopez was to her.

Rachel loves Santana, but not in the way in that she wants to settle down and have beautiful children with (after she'd won her EGOT and Santana was successful in whatever career she'd chosen). No, she'd already made a mental note that Santana was going to be that chapter in her biography as the woman she gained life experiences with for channeling into her performances. She'd already earned her place in the chapter on her early years as one of her closest friends.

Plus, orgasms. No one else had ever made Rachel feel that good.

She was relieved when Santana expressed a similar disinterest in a relationship (but a willingness for casual sex).

Rachel still doesn't know what she's looking for, but she's Rachel Berry; she'll know what it is when she finds it someday. Soon.

Any moment now.

Right now, though, Rachel Berry is a mess.

It had been a week since Santana confronted her at school, and she'd had ample time to digest all the revelations that had been dropped in her lap.

"Am I a horrible person?"

"Yeah," says Santana without hesitation, "about time you realised."

Rachel sighs. She had been expecting an answer along those lines; she doesn't know what possessed her to ask Santana anyway. Perhaps it was a little too much to be looking for constructive criticism from her ex-tormentor (and now ex-fuck buddy), but…

Rachel has seriously limited options in terms of friends. And she's not about to consult the one person whose opinion really matters about her attractiveness, anyway.

The sound of the television suddenly stops. "Okay, what's wrong, midget?"

"Nothing's wrong," answers Rachel reflexively. She's already making alternative plans; if the conversation doesn't progress positively, she's bailing out and finding Kurt.

Santana makes a noise of irritation. "I'm muting Jersey Shore for you, so make this quick."

"... you already answered my question, so I believe that the conversation is over."

Santana sighs. "Oh, for… you don't ask questions like that while I'm distracted, Rach. You know I'm a bitch when I'm interrupted."

Rachel can't resist saying: "You're a bitch all the time."

"True. But I can be less of a bitch when shit goes down." Santana frowns at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," repeats Rachel. "I'm simply feeling rather insecure regarding my attractiveness and was seeking an honest opinion. You're one of the few people I can talk to about that, given our recent status as friends with benefits."

"Uh huh," says Santana. "Does this have anything to do with Illegally Blonde?"

"Surely it won't kill you to use her name just once?" mutters Rachel under her breath. "No, this has nothing to do with Quinn."

"Bullshit. You're obsessed with her; and the hilarious thing is, she's obsessed with you too. You should be having hot lesbian monkey sex with her right now instead of whining to me."

"I'm not whining." It came out a lot more petulant than she'd intended.

"Whatever, Rach." Even if the television was muted, Santana's eyes were still glued to it. "She really fucking loves you. I don't know why, but she does. You could tell her she looked way hotter back when she had pink hair, and she'd trip over herself rushing for the dye." Santana tears her gaze from the screen. "Hey, that would be hilarious. You should do that."

"Certainly not."

Santana makes a disappointed sound.

Rachel sighs, rubbing at her face with a hand. She slides low in her seat, mumbling: "I'm scared" under her breath.

If Santana heard, she gave no sign; but she sidled close enough so Rachel could lean her head against a shoulder and that was good enough.

"I don't get it," says Quinn. "The last time we talked, you were suggesting I go up to New York so you could take me to this place you saw online, and now – you're saying you should come to New Haven instead."

"Yes, exactly."

"What changed?"

"Well…" The real reason, of course, is Rachel really doesn't need Santana's encouragement of her and Quinn's relationship. The beginning of one, really.

Not when she knows Santana as well as she does. The woman is like a dog with a bone when it comes to a goal she's set her focus on. Rachel smiles as the image of Santana Lopez as a huge Rottweiler pops into her head.

"Rachel?"

The smile turns sheepish with embarrassment. "Sorry. I was marshalling my thoughts. I did a study of our interactions since high school…"

"Of course you did," mutters Quinn. Rachel ignores her.

"... and found that you've spent a disproportionately greater number of hours in New York than I have in New Haven, even though we both hold train passes of equal value. While I commend the value you're getting out of your pass, it's simply not fair that you're spending so much time commuting compared to me."

Quinn makes a small, irritated noise. "Rachel, it's not a matter of being fair. You, Santana, and Kurt are all in New York. The city's much bigger than New Haven, with more things to see and do."

"I'd like to see your city," supplies Rachel.

"You've already seen my tiny student town."

She's running out of excuses. "... I'd just like to spend some time with you, alone," slips out before Rachel can stop it.

There's a lengthy pause. When Rachel finally summons the courage to lift her face out of her hands, she's met by a – if her eyes aren't deceiving her – very red Quinn.

"Uhm. Okay. If that's what you want, I…" Quinn clears her throat, "how about this weekend? You could come stay in my dorm. I'll… I'll let my roommate know."

"I'd like that a lot," confesses Rachel. Her stomach turns flip-flops that go ignored.

As it turns out, Melissa – Quinn's roommate – is also planning a weekend getaway of her own ("I wouldn't ask if I were you," remarks Quinn wryly on the phone) and is more than okay with having Rachel stay over.

Rachel's thrilled. She was made for New York, but sometimes she just wants to take a step back and enjoy quiet streets. A cup of coffee dragged out over a few hours with Quinn. An afternoon not punctuated by sirens and yelling, but spent talking to Quinn.

Did she mention Quinn yet?

Santana takes an alternative view. "Let's face it, Rachel; you just don't want to share Teen Mom with me and Porcelain."

Rachel glares at her. "You know that's not true, Santana."

"Do I?" She arches an eyebrow dramatically. "Come over here and tell me to my face you aren't glad that Preggo's roomie won't be in, letting you have Blondie allllll to yourself. All her attention, all her focus, all her long limpid puppy-dog –"

"That's enough."

Santana drops her teasing voice. "Does she know?"

"Santana…"

"You haven't told her?"

Rachel chews on her bottom lip. "It's complicated."

"Of course. And since when have you been easy? Apart from in bed, of course…"

"You don't understand," growls Rachel, stung by the ill-timed jab. As a rule, she tolerates Santana's poor attempts at sexual humour but she's too upset at the moment. "I can't lose Quinn."

"Funny. I thought having a big ol' lesbian crush means escalating friendly things into sexy things."

"What if she doesn't feel the same way?" With that soft confession, Rachel feels her last defences give way.

She can see Santana's demeanour soften. "She does, Rachel. I know you know this."

"How do you know for sure?"

Her friend is silent. Rachel's fairly certain they're thinking of the same things: slushies and boyfriends in common, Prom Queen campaigns and wheelchairs. But there are things she knows that Santana doesn't.

Like their run-ins in bathrooms, and talks on Prom Nights. A specially-chosen corsage of white gardenias, with a green ribbon around them.

"I just know," says Santana eventually. She doesn't look directly at Rachel. "Look – I've known Q as long as you have, but we've been on talking terms longer – "

Rachel snorts.

" – and she definitely cares about you. She's opened up more to you in the past year than to anyone else, like ever."

"That doesn't mean she – I'm Rachel Berry, Santana. She's Quinn Fabray."

"And I'm Santana Lopez." She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at Rachel. "There was a time when I'd rather lick dirt off the bottoms of Sue Sylvester's shoes than be seen talking to you in public, and yet, here we are." Santana spreads her hands. "So you wanna stop whining like a little bitch now and tell Aunty Snix what's really on your mind?"

"…"

"…"

"... Okay, fine," grumbles Rachel. Under Santana's expectant gaze, she says: "... I'm not good enough for her."

"Excuse me? No, excuse you. Are you trying to tell me that Rachel Berry, Queen of Slushies, Empress of Annoying the Fuck Out of Humanity, Duchess of Delivering Painful Monologues, thinks she isn't good enough for Quinn Fabray?"

Rachel colours. "You didn't need to put it like that, but… yes."

Santana opens her mouth; Rachel winces. But instead of the loud and angry tirade she's expecting, Santana just sighs.

"I'm sorry."

Rachel blinks. "Whatever for?"

"Making you think you're not good enough."

"You had nothing to do with that."

"Now, maybe. But high school?"

Rachel looks away.

"We all knew you spent recess crying in the bathroom, and we thought it was funny. We liked the fact you had no friends. We spent time thinking of more ways to cut you down. I was a horrible person. There's no getting around that." Santana rubs at a spot on her arm. "Things may be different now, but you can't pretend it didn't leave its mark on you, Rachel. Just like I can't pretend it never happened."

She chews on her lower lip pensively. Rachel remembers every bit of the pain she'd felt, remembers promising herself she'd get out of Lima and come back only when she's famous and successful, just to laugh at her high school bullies when they'd inevitably settled into their dead-end lives.

"I've forgiven you a long time ago," says Rachel. "I think it's about time you forgave yourself." She walks forward, taking Santana's hand and rubbing the back of it with her thumb. "You're more than a bad experience or a high school bully, Santana. You're one of the most amazing people I know, and my best friend."

Santana smiles, shaking her head. "You're really something else, midget," she says. Her eyes glisten visibly. "Only you would turn this into an emotionally-charged moment."

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't," jokes Rachel.

"It just goes to show you're definitely good enough for her."

"... You really think?"

"Well, duh."

Rachel laughs, and rests her head against Santana's shoulder. "May I…?"

"No."

"Santana."

"... fine. Make it quick."

Rachel rolls her eyes. She puts her arms around Santana's waist and squeezes briefly.

Wearing Santana's blessing like armour, Rachel boards her train, and finds herself a window seat.

Their talk stirred up more emotions than she could process – though, luckily, she had been able to get closure on the important things. Rachel remembers hating the small-minded people of her town with a fire that astounded her even now.

The hardcore bullying, at least, had been limited to her as a person. That was fine; she'd been raised by her dads to handle that. It was the general revulsion that they found outside as a family that rankled. That was the reason they'd stopped having public family outings when Rachel was fairly young. That was the reason she usually only went out with one of her dads at a time. That was the reason why her dad, Leroy, had been stuck at the same rank for fifteen years at the Lima Police Department, and her daddy, Hiram, had never received the pay raise that was promised with his promotion and increase in responsibilities.

Rachel counts herself lucky that the popular kids went after her appearance and her talent, her perceived lack of social skills, rather than where she came from and who her parents were.

The train lurches into motion. The changing scenery outside turns Rachel's thoughts to less depressing topics, like New Haven and Quinn.

Quinn is waiting for her on the other end of the gantry as promised. Rachel flies into her arms, almost knocking out an old lady who had the misfortune of being on Quinn's left and thus within the swinging radius of Rachel's traveling bag. Quinn has to rescue her from the scolding.

Once they've escaped safely, Quinn drops Rachel's hand and gives her a proper 'hello' hug. "You look great," says Quinn, stepping back to appraise Rachel.

"Before or after my murder attempt?"

"Both," Quinn laughs.

Rachel blushes, in spite of herself. "I'm assuming you would be willing to visit me in prison, then?"

"Of course." Quinn takes Rachel's bag (over the latter's vociferous protests) and leads the way out of the station. "Are you hungry? There's a nice cafe a few blocks over; I like the food there."

"Quinn! My bag, please," says Rachel, laughing. She makes a playful jump for the bag.

"Come on, Rach; you're not that short."

"Well, maybe your arms are just that much longer." Rachel doesn't mind playing the fool as long as she can keep that smile on Quinn's face. "Quinn Fabray, give me my bag this minute or I will be forced to take extreme action."

"What are you gonna do? Sing at me?"

Rachel mock-pouts. "You talk as though it hasn't worked in the past; I find expressing oneself through song very effective, and cathartic at the same time." While Quinn's distracted, Rachel makes a grab for the bag and comes away triumphant. "Aha!"

Quinn rolls her eyes at Rachel playfully. "If you won't let me hold your bag, you could at least let me hold something else of yours." Before Rachel can respond, she takes one of Rachel's hands and tugs her down the street.

They're halfway down the block when Rachel realises they're moving, because everything has slowed to a standstill, and nothing is happening outside of her hand in Quinn's. They've held hands plenty of times before – most of those times, she initiated it – but it's different now.

Rachel curls her fingers around Quinn's, gripping back. Quinn turns her head to beam at her. Rachel's heart promptly attempts to beat its way out of her chest.

"Are you okay, Rach?"

"Hmmm?" She's not staring. Not at all.

"You look a little flushed," offers Quinn.

"It's the cold. And the exercise I got liberating my bag."

Quinn tilts her head to one side. "Think you've worked up an appetite, then?"

Rachel chuckles. She angles her palm downwards so she can entwine her fingers with Quinn's. She could get used to this. "Definitely."

Rachel's relieved (and maybe a tad disappointed) that Quinn's plans for the day involve doing absolutely nothing in the room. Frankly, she's not sure how she's been able to function up to this point; Santana's revelation about Quinn has turned her into a hyper-aware blushing mess each time Quinn looks at her.

She feels so, so stupid. She's in love with Quinn – it's so obvious even Santana 'In-Complete-Denial-of-Her-Lesbian-Status' Lopez can tell. Rachel doesn't doubt that Quinn reciprocates those feelings to a certain extent.

But she's Quinn Fabray. Quinn runs whenever she's scared, confused, or upset; basically, her default response to things outside her comfort zone is to run for the hills and never look back.

What if she isn't ready to acknowledge whatever's between them? What if Quinn genuinely thinks that the way they carry on is how female best friends act, and her feelings are strictly platonic? What if Santana's wrong, and she's been hanging her hopes on something that was never there?

Rachel blinks. Quinn's waving a hand in front of her face. "Broadway calling," she says, lips twitching as she fights to keep the smirk from her face. "They're saying you've been nominated for a Tony."

"Sorry. In my head, I was giving my acceptance speech, and you can understand how appealing that was that I'd want to daydream a little longer," lies Rachel.

"Right." Quinn sheepishly gestures at her overladen desk. "As I was saying earlier, I've got a paper due next Tuesday, so I need to get it done before we get to do anything fun," she says.

"Next Tuesday…?" Rachel places her hands on her hips. "Quinn Fabray, you were planning on coming to New York while on a deadline?"

The sheepish expression grows – if it's even possible – more sheepish. "It's more or less done. I just need to go over my formatting and references. It's not a big deal, Rach."

She relaxes her mock-severe stance. "Oh. Good. That's a relief; you know I'm not a fan of last-minute work. It's sloppy, and it's incredibly stressful." Rachel walks over to squint critically at the handwritten notes on the table. "But then again, your constant presence on the honor roll in school, and now Ivy League, clearly indicates you have no problems with time management or academic ability."

"Was that a compliment I detect, buried somewhere in that speech?"

Rachel smiles, utterly charmed. "Give yourself a little more credit, Quinn. There were at least two compliments in there."

Her friend smiles. Quinn seats herself at the desk, pulling a laptop from somewhere under the pile of books. "Melissa lent me her laptop, so you can watch something on mine while I finish this paper up, then we'll go have dinner. Deal?"

"Deal." She takes the laptop, smiling at the photo they took of their Glee club reunion last December Quinn has as her desktop wallpaper. "You're adorable."

"What?"

"This is adorable," says Rachel. "Your desktop wallpaper."

"Oh." Quinn shrugs, her attention already focused on the document in front of her. "I don't really download high-res images, so it was this or one of the default images."

"It doesn't take that much time to download a wallpaper."

"Mmmhmm."

Rachel sighs and gives it up as a lost cause. She clicks the browser open to search for some pictures she's certain Quinn will like; at the same time, she browses Quinn's movie collection.

She's so engrossed in the movie that she doesn't register that Quinn's sitting beside her until she feels a gentle yank on her right earbud, and Quinn says: "I'm done."

"Oh," says Rachel. She rolls her shoulders, marvelling at how stiff they feel. "Already?"

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "Rachel, it's eight."

Her mouth falls open a little. "But we got here at four."

"Exactly." Quinn glances at the screen, and giggles. "Atlantis? Really, Rach?"

"Not all of my interests lie strictly in music," she huffs. "I greatly enjoy the movie's nascent use of computer-generated imagery, and the shift in Disney's storytelling style away from the traditional princess musicals. Besides," adds Rachel slyly, "this is your movie collection. You love this movie too."

"Mostly, I thought Helga Sinclair was hot when I was a kid." Quinn shrugs, and slides off the bed to get her coat. "Shall we go? You must be starving."

"You – Quinn Fabray! You can't make a statement like that and act so nonchalant about it!" Rachel follows Quinn out the door, slipping into her overcoat as she waits for Quinn to lock the room.

"What? It's not a big deal." Quinn leads the way downstairs to the lobby. "What do you feel like having? Asian or Mexican?"

"We will return to this topic of discussion later," says Rachel. "I enjoy both cuisines immensely. Since this is your territory, you should pick something you like."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Mexican it is," she says. She nudges Rachel in the direction of the main doors, and takes a left out of the campus. "One of my friends in my Dramatic Analysis class discovered the place when she was drunk out of her mind, and brought us there. They have excellent vegetarian alternatives, they even got a write-up in Yale's newsletter."

Rachel's stomach growls immediately. She blushes.

"At least someone's excited," teases Quinn.

"It's just late." Rachel focuses on the sidewalk. "Back to Helga Sinclair. I didn't know you showed an appreciation for the female form at such an early age."

Quinn groans. "It's not what you're thinking, Rachel; I was fat. She's blonde, athletic, and hella badass. I was fascinated by her." She tugs on Rachel's sleeve to guide her to the right, away from the woman walking her dog. "She didn't take any shit from the men."

"I was more interested in Kida, actually. She's the spunky princess who fights for what she believes is the right thing, both for herself and her people. Even if she was indisposed for the climax of the movie, and had to be rescued."

"Be honest. You'd like her better if she had a big 'I-want' song," says Quinn. She points across the street. "That's the place."

Rachel doesn't have the chance to respond as they enter the restaurant and are seated, but it hardly matters.

She can't remember whose idea it was to order margaritas, but three hours later, they're out on the cold, dark streets and swaying gently in the direction of the dorms.

"I can't believe you volunteered yourself as entertainment," says Quinn.

"They have a stage and a fairly competent backing band. It was practically calling my name."

"They're a mariachi band. You may be the most talented singer to leave Lima, but the only mariachi song you know is La Cucaracha."

Rachel ignores the gentle insult in favour of focusing on the compliment. "Quinn, don't exaggerate. I'm hardly the most talented ever. In recent years, maybe, but all of our fellow Glee clubbers are just as talented, if not more so; my skills begin and end at singing."

"You write songs, too."

"We wrote songs."

"I didn't."

"You inspired me." Rachel remembers being upset in the immediate aftermath of their confrontation, but older and wiser now, she looks back on it as a valuable character growth exercise – not to mention a rare peek into what made Quinn Fabray tick.

She has never been more thankful for her flawless memory.

"You know," says Rachel casually, "I was thinking of getting a tattoo next year."

"Really? Of what? Gold stars?"

"No."

"Yes."

"Not just gold stars," she defends herself. "Just one small one on my hip, and a constellation somewhere else, I haven't decided. I wanted lyrics from Get It Right."

Quinn suddenly looks much less inebriated than she was five minutes ago. "That song?"

"Of course. It was a pivotal point in our relationship, and it won us Regionals." Rachel doesn't mention that with the benefit of hindsight, she would have dedicated it to Quinn and not Finn. "If you think I'm good at songwriting, you should consider a career as a muse."

"I'll be glad to issue you tearful monologues on demand telling you why you shouldn't have Finn Hudson, that will inspire you to write the next Top 40 hit," says Quinn dryly.

Rachel makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "I can't believe we spent so much time fighting over Finn, especially now that you're in Yale and I'm in New York, and he's – "

" – in Lima, having taken over Kurt's dad's tire shop," finishes Quinn. She unlocks the door of her dorm room and lets Rachel in, closing the door behind them. "You should also mention my clairvoyant skills."

"No way. You screwed up three of your predictions. You're not married to Finn, you're not a successful real estate agent, I…" Rachel trails off. She was about to say that she did get it right, she went right on looking for that happy ending and found it.

Well, it would be a happy ending if Quinn cooperates.

"Three?" Quinn hangs up their coats and sprawls on her bed.

Rachel clears her throat. "I don't hate you for sending me on my way," she says. While certainly not what she had in mind, it's true as well. "And even though I was already destined for New York, I appreciate the gesture." She joins Quinn on the bed, stealing a pillow and hugging it to her cheek.

Quinn mutters something that Rachel doesn't catch. She stretches and yawns; the hem of her sweater rides up a little, revealing a strip of smooth pale skin that catches Rachel's eye immediately. Rachel tears her gaze away a second later, but Quinn notices.

"I'm not a pay-per-view, Berry."

"Quinn!" She can't stop smiling, though; the mental image of a scantily-clad Quinn is undeniably just as appealing as it's degrading. Quinn has always been a fantastic dancer. Rachel's mind drifts, unbidden, to a steamy vision of Quinn in fishnet stockings and a leather corset, legs wrapped around a pole…

"What did I just say?" Quinn's voice filters into her head, sounding incredibly amused.

Rachel arranges her expression into something nonchalant. "I wasn't looking at anything."

"Please. Who said you were? I was just gonna say that you had this look on your face that reminded me of Finn."

"And what did that look like?"

"Hungry. Aroused. Constipated. One of the three. It's pretty hard to tell with Finn."

"I don't appreciate the comparison." Rachel rests her head on Quinn's upper arm tentatively, sighing in relief when Quinn doesn't squirm away. "My thoughts were simply elsewhere." In an attempt to change the subject, she reaches for the laptop and drags it closer. "Are you tired? Should we watch something?"

"I'm not sleepy. We should watch Atlantis, since you started without me."

"You were occupied. I had to keep myself entertained."

"Excuses," says Quinn. She sits up, leaning back against the mound of pillows at the headboard of the bed, motioning for Rachel to join her. Rachel, missing her makeshift pillow, snuggles into Quinn's side, and tries not to squee when she feels Quinn's other arm wrap around her shoulders. Quinn replays the movie, and they watch it in silence.

This time around, Rachel focuses on Helga Sinclair. Being one of the villains, she'd never really paid much attention to the character but what Quinn said makes her think. Now, she sees a lot of head Cheerio Quinn Fabray in the character's bearing and demeanour, and smiles to herself.

"Penny for your thoughts?" asks Rachel after the movie.

Quinn smirks. "Is that all they're worth?"

"Of course not," huffs Rachel. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but that's a common figure of speech. I would think someone who reads as much as you do would know that."

"Relax, Rachel. I was just making fun of you. You're cute when you're riled." She closes the laptop. "I'm going to wash up. You can take Melissa's bed. Remind me to wash the sheets and stuff before you leave." Quinn leaves before Rachel can comment.

The next morning, she wakes up bright and early – only to find Quinn already up before her, and with breakfast. "I knew you'd be awake early," she says. "Surprise."

Rachel tries not to laugh. "Well, you got me. I'm suitably impressed." Her eyes fall on the brown cardboard tray. "Green smoothies?"

"Of course."

"You're perfect," slips out before Rachel can stop it. She clears her throat, and quickly says: "I'm going for a run. Would you like to join me?"

"I'm the host; I should be asking you what you'd like to do." Quinn smirks. "But it's a good thing I was gonna ask you to go running with me."

"Excellent. Let me get changed, and I'll be ready soon."

They've been friends long enough that Rachel knows Quinn loves her morning runs when she doesn't have anything else scheduled. She lets Quinn set the pace as they jog through the sleepy town. Normally, when she's alone, she has her playlist of inspiring songs; now, she forgoes her music in favour of Quinn's company.

However, it's the first time she's actually accompanied Quinn on said morning runs, and while she has her beloved elliptical and dance classes, Quinn was a Cheerio under Sue Sylvester for most of high school.

"Let's take a break," says Quinn, sounding amused. Rachel tries not to look too enthusiastically happy as she nods, and slows to a walk. She tries not to pout at the fact Quinn sounds barely out of breath considering the punishing pace she was setting.

Quinn catches the pout anyway. "Cheerio," she says, pointing at herself.

"How could I have forgotten." The short, short skirts of the uniform were one of the many highlights of Rachel's day, right next to Finn Hudson's crooked grin – even after she'd been slushied.

"You're doing pretty good, though – most of my other running buddies couldn't keep up for long."

"Sue Sylvester is insane."

Quinn shrugs. She goes through a series of stretches that sorely test Rachel's ability to keep from drooling. "She is, but she produces results. It's the only reason she's gotten away with as much as she has."

"Come to think of it, you're insane as well, for wanting to put yourself through that."

"Oh, that was never in question," laughs Quinn. "You would have to be at least a little cuckoo to do some of the stuff I've done."

Rachel looks up. "Such as?"

"Nice try, Berry. I'm not drunk enough for that." Quinn takes off without warning; after a split-second of standing there baffled, Rachel follows. "Last one back at the dorm buys brunch," she calls over her shoulder.

"Quinn, that's not fair! You have homeground advantage, and furthermore, you didn't give me time to adequately prepare myself!"

Rachel tries not to look too smug as she sits down at the table – a direct contrast to the sulky petulance on Quinn's face. "I'm really going to enjoy my meal today," she says.

"You only won," mutters Quinn, "because you're my guest, and I let you."

"In that case, I certainly appreciate your hospitality." The waitress returns with their food – garden omelette for Rachel, scrambled eggs and bacon for Quinn – and Rachel takes a deep, exaggerated sniff. "The sweet smell of victory."

Quinn steals a mushroom off Rachel's plate, popping it into her mouth and chewing – Rachel squeaks in outrage. "It tastes as good as it smells. Maybe because I paid for it."

"Thief. I won, fair and square."

"You attempted to push me into the pond. That was an attempt at cheating."

"It didn't work, therefore I didn't cheat." As she talks, Rachel surveys Quinn's plate, trying to determine which item is safe for her to steal. With a triumphant cry, she snatches up a piece of dry toast and takes a huge bite out of it.

Quinn just stares at her. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look right now, Rachel?"

"It was the only thing safe to eat," she explains around a mouthful of toast. Rachel reaches for the little plastic tub of strawberry jam that came with their food, spreading a little on the wedge of uneaten toast still in her hand.

"Desperation is so not a good look on you."

"I'm incredibly competitive, and I've been told I'm something of a sore loser."

"You're lucky I'm going to be the bigger person here, and not smear my bacon all over your omelette."

"Threatening a vegetarian with bacon? That's a hate crime."

Quinn points at the opened strawberry jam tub with her fork. "And that's cannibalism."

Rachel makes the mistake of glancing up at Quinn in this moment. Quinn has one elbow on the table, resting her chin on her palm, amusement evident in her eyes as she brandishes her fork in her other hand. Despite the sizeable crowd around them, the entire scene feels too intimate. She chokes on her toast, and has to wash it down with a large sip of her coffee. "Guilty as charged, I suppose," she manages eventually.

Quinn smirks, clearly glad to have gotten the last word, and goes back to her food.

After a quick shower, they go out for drinks at a place Quinn is surprisingly quiet about – until they arrive.

"A karaoke bar," says Rachel, her eyes gleaming.

"A karaoke bar," agrees Quinn. "Please try not to make me regret this decision. I remember only too well the last time we went to one."

"You have a lovely voice. It only makes sense that we duet at least once."

"I was talking about your song choices. Especially For You? That was so campy." She allows Rachel to drag her to a table – front and centre of the stage, naturally – and order them drinks.

"Would you rather sing Broadway?"

"I would rather not sing at all."

Rachel laughs indulgently, and lets it go. Truthfully, she's already touched that Quinn chose to bring her here. She doesn't need to coax Quinn into singing – although that would, admittedly, be a bonus. "You'll change your tune later."

"We'll see." Their drinks arrive; Quinn blinks at the cranberry vodka in front of her. "How did you know what I wanted?"

"I've known you long enough, Quinn." The other time they went with Santana, Quinn downed cranberry vodka after cranberry vodka and was horribly drunk.

"I'm not that predictable."

Rachel is distracted by her phone. There's a message from Santana: did u get ur girl yet

No.

y not

Are you drunk?

not yet humme out at sum guys party wa doin

She took me to a karaoke bar. We're here now.

Gr8t wat r u waitin 4 go sing 2 ur woman n hav all teh orgasms

You're disgusting. And it doesn't work that way.

Ya it does who r u evn berry

Rachel huffs and decides not to reply, shoving her phone back into her purse.

"Was that Santana? What did she want?" asks Quinn.

"Yes. Nothing at all… she's on her way to getting drunk and was asking about my inebriation levels."

Much to her disappointment, Quinn doesn't respond with some cute and flirty comment like she's been doing all day; she simply presses her lips together and returns to her drink. "Oh."

"Is something wrong?"

Quinn forces a smile – she's known Quinn long enough to be able to distinguish a fake smile from a genuine one. "No, nothing. Do you want to go? You could call her."

Rachel finally remembers. "It's nothing like that – we've broken up. As in, not that we were dating to begin with… we simply decided we were better off as friends."

"Oh."

"Yeah." She doesn't mention the reasons for it.

"Any reason why? You two looked pretty happy with whatever arrangement you had," says Quinn, smiling mirthlessly.

And Rachel finds herself in a tight position. She can't very well come out and say yes, we called it off because I'm in love with you because she's terrified of what Quinn's reaction will be, regardless of what Santana insists. She isn't going to lie to Quinn because when the truth comes out eventually, she'll lose Quinn's trust, and quite possibly, her friendship. Making matters worse, the noisy karaoke bar is no place for this conversation. "It's complicated," she manages at length.

Quinn's face closes off. "I see."

"Quinn, no." She lays her hand on Quinn's arm; much to her relief, Quinn doesn't pull away. "I'll tell you. I promise. I just – this isn't the best place to be talking about personal matters like this."

Her friend smiles at her – with a little more warmth this time. "Okay. You know, you don't have to."

"I want to."

Rachel returns to her drink. The mood's been ruined, but she's too afraid to suggest going back to the dorm; not after all the effort Quinn's put in to make her visit enjoyable.

"You haven't sang anything," points out Quinn.

"I'm a little tired from this morning," lies Rachel.

Nodding, Quinn stands up. "I'm going outside for a little fresh air."

"Quinn, wait." She quickly throws some money on the table and grabs her purse, following Quinn outside. "Would you let me explain?"

"I don't know, is there anything to explain?" Quinn doesn't stop walking as she talks.

"Please don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are; you're walking away." In her haste to keep up, Rachel takes a step too far forward, and her foot goes in a different direction from her body. She stumbles but years of dance training means she falls gracefully.

"Rachel!" Quinn is at her side in an instant, kneeling on the sidewalk in front of her. "Are you alright?"

"I think so. My talent is still intact, at any rate." She pulls her body up and inspects it; nothing appears wounded apart from her dignity.

"Okay. That's good." Quinn makes like she's about to get up, but Rachel catches her wrist.

"Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Liar."

Quinn huffs. "Rachel, let go of me."

"Only if you promise you're not going to run away."

"You're being ridiculous."

She squeezes Quinn's hand, gently, until Quinn finally looks at her. "Please."

"Fine. I promise."

Rachel releases her. Quinn settles on the sidewalk, legs curled beneath her. "Okay. See, I'm not running away."

She smiles. "I appreciate it. Quinn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

She laughs without humour. "No one ever does."

Rachel has her back against the wall. She's being forced into confessing, and even if it's happening in less than ideal circumstances – while they're sitting on the sidewalk somewhere in New Haven, smelling of alcohol – it feels like a load has been lifted off her chest. "I'm in love with you."

"... what?"

"That's why Santana broke it off with me." She takes a slow breath. "I fell for you somewhere along the way. She noticed it before I did, and ended it."

Quinn's staring at her as though seeing her for the first time.

"Santana seems to think you feel the same way about me." She almost feels like crying. As forthright about her feelings as she is, laying her heart out in the open like this isn't incredibly fun for Rachel. "Even then, I was scared to tell you how I feel because I… I don't know, Quinn. I'm scared I'm going to lose you. I've been wrong about smaller things. What if I was wrong about this?"

Rachel forces a smile. "You should say something now before I pass out from nerves."

Quinn closes her mouth. "I don't know what to say, Rachel."

"It's not that difficult. You either feel the same way or you don't; in the latter case, you decide whether you ever want to see me again." Rachel can't keep the sarcastic edge out of her voice, but she's had a long day, and an even longer rollercoaster ride of emotions. "I'll respect whatever decision you make."

"You can't put this all on me."

"And why not? I've put myself out here; it's completely up to you what happens next." She looks at Quinn, who has her gaze trained on the tarmac in front of them.

"I… I've never done this before."

"Been in a relationship with a girl?"

"Felt this way about anyone."

"What way?"

"I don't know." Her fingers fidget ceaselessly in her lap. "Like it's too much. Like I want so much more, but it's not enough. Like I need to be with you every second of the day."

Rachel pulls her knees up to her chin. "Haven't you ever been in love before?"

"I don't know if I can call it that. I'm not sure what being in love is supposed to feel like."

"... Are you being serious, right now?"

"Of course," snaps Quinn. "Rachel, you're the first person I've ever met who didn't want something from me. You and I, we… I've never been able to figure out what you were to me." She pauses. "I guess that's why I seemed fixated on you. I never stopped trying to figure you out."

"I've never wanted anything more than your friendship," says Rachel, "at least, before this happened." It seems needless to say anything more than that.

"Well, yes. I came to that conclusion some time back."

Rachel's heart sinks. She can guess where this is leading to. "I'm sorry I dropped this on you so suddenly."

"Don't be. It would have happened sooner or later." Quinn exhales.

Rachel nods. She gets to her feet.

"Rachel, where are you going?"

"Back to the dorm. I think you need some space. I don't know how we'll manage that, given that I'm staying with you, and this is such short notice." She checks the time on her phone. "I think I might be able to catch the last train back to New York if I hurry."

"Don't leave."

"Quinn, I just told you I'm in love with you. I know you're really confused and have a lot to think about. You need time and space away from me to make whatever decision you need to make." She glances at Quinn, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry I ruined this trip. You were trying so hard to make sure I had a good time, and I ruined everything."

"Rachel…"

"If you don't mind, could you at least point me to the station? I'll collect my things from you another time, when we've both calmed down. Or if you prefer, I could ask Kurt to come get my bag. It won't cost a thing, not when we've got these train passes."

Quinn looks anguished, but she doesn't stop her from going.

She calls Santana, who picks up on the first ring. "Rach? Are you okay?"

"I don't think so," she says, and bursts into tears.

"I'm so sorry. Where are you? Do you want me to come get you?"

"I'm fine. I'm on the last train back to New York."

She hears Santana say something in the background, and then Santana's voice sounds in her ear. "I told Kurt you're coming back tonight," she says. "We'll come pick you up from Grand Central."

"You don't have to. Tell him he doesn't have to, either." She sniffs loudly.

"Bullshit, Rach. What time's your train? Never mind, we'll just wait. Or look it up on the website. See you later." The call terminates abruptly.

Rachel sets her phone back down on the seat beside her and tries to hold her tears in. She had started her trip feeling on top of the world, and now here she is, crawling home in pieces. Rachel tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat – and starts when her phone blares Valerie.

"Sorry, I forgot to ask if you wanted me to stay on the line with you," says Santana sheepishly. "Do you? Or I could put Kurt on if you want…"

Rachel smiles through the tears that are rolling down her cheeks. "Thank you for offering, Santana. Do you think you could talk, though? I don't feel like talking much right now."

"Yeah, okay. So, the party Hummel and I went to? We didn't know anyone there, except the smarmy son of a bitch who's a friend of the guy Hummel met in the cafeteria at NYADA…"

She arrives in a deserted station where the only two people there spring out of their chairs when they spot her. Rachel puts her phone back into her pocket.

Kurt reaches her first. "Come here, sweetie," he says, opening his arms wide.

Hot tears burn at her eyes, and she flings herself into his embrace. "Let's get you home," murmurs Kurt, ushering her to the waiting cab.

Rachel cries into his neck the entire way back and up into the loft. Santana excuses herself, presumably to inform Quinn that she's gotten home safely, but thinking about Quinn hurts. Rachel cries harder.

Santana slides into bed with her. She feels Kurt pry her fingers away gently and hand her over.

"I'm so sorry," coos her friend.

It takes two days before Rachel calms down enough to function, and another day before she can be coaxed into relating the events that led to her breakdown. From the way Kurt and Santana exchange significant looks over her head when they think she doesn't see, Rachel can guess that she's filled him in on the conversations she had with Santana before the trip.

"I'mma cut her," says Santana.

"She's your friend too."

"Yeah, well; I've slept with you more times than I have with her. I live with you too, and if you're going to mope around like this, it'll depress me."

Rachel smiles a little. Her friend will never cease to amaze her – as does Santana's going to great lengths to avoid showing affection. "Thank you for your concern, Santana."

"Concern nothing."

"It won't actually ruin your big tough Lima Heights survivor reputation if you'd admit to being nice just this once," remarks Kurt snidely.

Santana narrows her eyes at him. "Would you like to be a real soprano, Hummel? I have a coupla razor blades here that can help."

"Guys, hello? I'm the one with a broken heart here?"

But they've started squabbling again. Rachel sighs, and goes to fetch Brad and the TV remote. Eventually, they'll remember her and come keep her company, but until then…

"You'll never break my heart; won't you, Brad?"

The pillow remains strong and silent, yet comforting.

Quinn has yet to contact her since that fateful visit. Kurt's returned with her neatly-packed duffel with nothing out of the ordinary to report, no matter how many probing questions Rachel asked.

She doesn't know what to do, except gather the pieces of her heart, and move on.

Fortunately, college is very good at keeping her occupied. And if there are moments when she walks in on Santana engaged in a hushed yet angry conversation on the phone? When she sees Kurt hastily slam down the lid of his laptop? Rachel's too busy to stop and ask.

It's better this way.

On a warm spring afternoon, Rachel gets a call from Santana. "Rachel," she says, sounding out of breath, "I'm fucking glad you picked up. You gotta get back home now."

"Santana? What's wrong? Where are you? Are you in trouble? Did something happen to Kurt?" Already, she's throwing her things into her bag with a quick panicked look to her lecturer, and Rachel's running through the halls.

"I don't know – shit, Rach. Just hurry home, okay? How soon can you get back?"

"Uh – fifteen minutes? Taxi!" she barks, and a car pulls up in front of her. "I just got a cab. You're not hurt or anything, are you?"

"I'm fine. I just need your help, real quick."

"Did you try making pasta again? I thought we agreed that you wouldn't use the kitchen unsupervised after the noodle incident."

"Well, fuck, fine time to bring that up when I'm in the middle of a crisis!" snaps Santana.

"I'm mentally preparing myself for what I might find, since you refuse to give me details!"

"God, you're annoying. I'm hanging up now. See you in a bit."

She tumbles through the door, completely out of breath after deciding the lift was too slow, and running up eight storeys of stairs. "Santana? Where are you? Are – oh."

Quinn, as pale as death, gets up from where she's been sitting on the couch.

Rachel goes white. She whirls around –

– and jerks back as the loft door slams shut, narrowly missing her nose, and the unmistakable sound of a padlock being fastened.

"Oh for – you're not fucking serious!" shouts Rachel.

"Look, Hummel and I have been working far too hard on this for us to be scared of your weak-ass threats," Santana's voice floats through the door. "It's Friday afternoon; we'll let you two morons out on Saturday afternoon at the earliest, on until you get your shit sorted out."

"Kurt!"

"I love you, Rachel, but I'm with Santana on this one," he says. "You'll thank me later."

She bangs her fists on the door, yelling curses that grow more frantic when she hears the sounds of footsteps receding. Rachel finally exhausts her repertoire of swear words, and slides to the floor.

"... I didn't know you knew how to curse like that in Spanish."

Rachel glances up at Quinn. "Living with Santana means you hear a lot of things – most directed at you."

"That explains it."

She picks herself up and dusts off her jeans, attempting to recoup some of her dignity. "Hello, Quinn. It's good to see you. You look well." It's a blatant lie; even with the late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, it's clear to see Quinn looks haggard, with dark circles under her eyes.

"Thanks. You look… are we really going to do this, Rachel?" Quinn sounds just as tired as she looks.

"Fine. You look terrible, and clearly you haven't been sleeping well. Have you been eating, at least?"

"Just as well as you."

"Which means not at all." She folds her arms across her chest. "I'm mad at you."

"I know."

"I haven't heard from you in nearly a month. I would have thought you'd died, if Santana and Kurt weren't so blatantly obvious about the fact they were in contact with you."

"Wait, you knew they were planning this?"

Rachel snorts. "Of course not. This stunt is something I thought would only be used in cheesy romantic comedies, the kind churned out by Hollywood for Valentine's Day; not inflicted on us by a mismatched and misguided pair of schemers that my roommates and erstwhile friends have turned out to be."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn's mouth twitch. "Erstwhile friends?"

"They've really outdone themselves this time. I thought the noodle incident was bad enough, but clearly I was wrong."

Quinn sits back down slowly. One of her hands goes to the upper arm of the other, massaging it – a sure sign she's nervous. "I never heard the details of that incident. The only thing I know about it is Kurt's sudden aversion to linguine, and this eye twitch Santana gets when someone mentions alfredo."

Rachel laughs weakly. "Remind me to tell you, one of these days. After we've murdered those two for their extreme stupidity." She takes a step forward – and stops short when she sees Quinn tense. "You're nervous."

"I can't help it."

She finds it increasingly harder to stay mad at Quinn, especially now it's clear to see she's just as tormented by Rachel's revelation, if not more so. "I may be mad, but I'm more worried about you."

"... Why are you doing this?"

"What am I doing?" Rachel wonders when she started making a habit out of lying to Quinn.

"Caring about me. I've hurt you, again and again, and yet you persist in putting me first." Quinn laughs once, sharply. "What have I done that makes you care so much?"

"I love you," says Rachel simply. The more times she says it, the more her conviction grows. "That doesn't need explanation."

"Yes, it does. I'm Quinn Fabray. People don't love me for no good reason."

"Well, I'm Rachel Berry, and I don't need a good reason to love anyone." Emboldened, she sits on the side of the couch nearest to her. Quinn immediately flees to the far end of the couch, stiff as a board. She won't even look in Rachel's direction.

"Quinn."

She makes a non-committal sound.

Rachel decides to try humour. "If we're going to talk, you need to be looking at me, at the very least."

"This is fine," says Quinn.

"No, it isn't." She scoots a little closer. Rachel has this ridiculous mental image of Quinn getting startled like a rabbit if she gets too close too quickly, and diving out the window; they're on the eighth floor, so that's not an ideal outcome.

"There's nothing to talk about," insists Quinn.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

The corners of Rachel's mouth turn down. "Quinn…"

"What?" Quinn sneaks a glance at her. "Oh god… Rachel, you're not going to cry, are you?"

"No," says Rachel. "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now, that's all." She scoots an inch forward. "I love you. I think I'm still falling in love with you, and that you might like me; it's a lot to take in."

Quinn makes a strangled sound. "I do like you."

"As a friend?" Another inch.

"You're my best friend, but you're also… I don't know what you want me to say. I'm not good at letting people in. Or talking about my feelings. I've been thinking about this for a while now, and it's not getting any easier."

"You can just start small." The couch is getting a good polishing from the seat of her pants. "Like… are you feeling happy right now? Sad?"

"Definitely not sad."

She's almost within arm's length – an average person's arm length, that is. Damn. "I hope you're not going to say angry."

Quinn chuckles softly. "Rachel, I'm so far from angry right now. Maybe I'm a little pissed at Santana and Kurt for doing this to us, but that's all."

If Rachel strains, she could probably brush Quinn with her fingertips. She'd really rather not. "Content, perhaps?" She keeps her voice low so Quinn won't suspect the distance between their bodies has been decreasing at a steady pace.

"Why are we talking about my feelings? What about yours?"

"Oh, well, I – I know what you're trying to do, Quinn Fabray; being Miss Sneaky Pants doesn't suit you." Rachel has her butt suspended over the couch cushions so the rustling of material doesn't give her away. She's never been this grateful for her well-toned thighs and core muscles. "You and I both know I could talk for hours about myself if given half a chance."

"Then why don't you?" Quinn turns her head –

– and comes nose-to-nose with Rachel.

Moments pass in agonizing silence. Rachel stares intently into surprised hazel eyes, hoping this won't be the trigger that sends Quinn out her window. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

"Rachel," breathes Quinn.

Her name – spoken so reverently – brings Rachel's attention back to the present, away from Quinn's eyes. Rachel wonders if she should kiss her to properly break the spell.

Quinn saves her the effort.

Quinn's mouth on hers makes her feel like she's never been kissed before. She moans, tries to get closer, her hands grasp at Quinn's face. She's greedy. She wants more, right now; she needs to be closer to Quinn.

A whimper escapes Rachel when Quinn grabs her hip; she fists a hand in Quinn's hair and tugs her where Rachel wants her. It gets a whimper out of Quinn too; Rachel smiles, and kisses her again.

Rachel finds herself being laid down. She pulls Quinn down with her, hooking her leg around Quinn's.

"I've wanted this for so long," groans Quinn between kisses.

"Me too." Rachel's palm slides down the length of Quinn's body. "I've wanted you. I want you." She keeps her other hand on the back of Quinn's head, fingers splayed, holding her close. She doesn't stop kissing Quinn, only gasping softly when she feels an arm wrap around her waist.

Quinn exhales. She presses her forehead to Rachel's.

Rachel touches her chin to get her attention. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. We just… we can't do this out here."

Rachel nods. "My room." With a quick peck to Quinn's lips, she extricates herself from underneath Quinn's body and walks to her room. "Coming?" she tosses over her shoulder.

Quinn's not Santana, so she doesn't receive a vulgar response. Rachel's just reached her bed when she feels her knees pressed to the edge, hands on her hips, and her body gently turned around.

"Are you sure?" Quinn whispers.

Rachel shudders. Quinn's presence alone is doing things to her; particularly, to the spontaneous saturation of her panties. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Are you sure?"

"I… honestly don't know what I'm doing, but I'm tired of not letting myself have the things I want."

"You want me?"

Quinn looks into her eyes. "I do."

Her arms curl around Quinn's waist, fingertips toying with the hem of her shirt. "Then have me."

Lips roam over the shell of Rachel's ear; she moans softly and presses herself closer to Quinn. She tilts her head to one side so those lips can kiss lower still.

"I need…"

Quinn finds the spot, and Rachel's knees go weak. She sits down slowly, fingers interlinking over Quinn's spine to keep her close as they reposition themselves. Rachel laughs breathlessly when Quinn breaks away from her neck to fling an arm out, propping her body up so she doesn't crush Rachel.

"You're adorable."

Quinn gazes at her through half-lidded eyes, hair rumpled where Rachel had ran her fingers through it earlier. "Adorable?"

"And incredibly beautiful," adds Rachel. She's flat on her back, Quinn hovering over her. She's never felt so safe and protected in her life. Her palms cup Quinn's face, thumbs lingering over cheekbones. The tip of Rachel's finger brushes down Quinn's nose. "I've thought about this. For so long."

Quinn makes a soft sound. She lowers herself on her elbows to kiss Rachel again, slowly – which deepens when Rachel cradles the back of Quinn's head to her. One hand slides up Quinn's shirt, stroking heated skin.

"Can I…?"

"Yeah."

It's awkward, attempting to remove clothing when neither of them want to stop kissing the other, but they manage somehow. Rachel's down to her bra, and Quinn's lost her jeans.

Rachel's breathing skips when Quinn licks up her belly. "Take it off."

"Mine or yours?"

"Mine. Yours. Both. Just… here." She fumbles behind herself – stilling when a hand covers her own. "Relax, Rachel," says Quinn, sounding amused.

"You're asking me to relax, now?"

"Yeah. Here, let me…" She undoes the clasp of Rachel's bra with a flick. Rachel pouts; Quinn kisses it away. Before she can lose herself in Quinn again, the other woman draws away, sliding Rachel's bra off her shoulders.

"Beautiful," she whispers.

Before Rachel has a chance to react, Quinn is upon her again. Rachel's back arches and she hisses in pleasure when a hot mouth closes around her nipple. There's a hand around her other breast, fingers tweaking –

"Fuck."

Quinn laughs softly. Rachel can feel the vibration traveling through her body. "I don't think I'll get used to hearing you swear."

"There's more where that came from." Rachel rolls her hips against Quinn's body, smirking when she hears a sharp intake of breath. "Touch me."

Quinn's hand leaves her breast; Rachel bites on her lower lip to stifle a whimper – which quickly becomes a moan when the hand tugs at the waistband of her panties. She raises her hips so she can scoot out of her – embarrassingly soaked – shorts and underwear.

She's completely naked, lying in front of Quinn, and all she can think about is the aching need in her belly, and the fact Quinn isn't doing anything to satisfy it. Rachel pulls Quinn in for another bruising kiss.

Quinn snaps out of her trance. Rachel yelps when she's pressed back into her pillows hard, and her hips buck when a hand cups between her legs. "Oh god," grunts Rachel, throwing her head back when fingers start a rhythm over her clit. "So good. Baby, don't stop."

"I won't. You look so good like this."

She moans louder. "Quinn, I need you to – I'm close."

Fingers thrust into her. Rachel thinks she might see stars. Her world narrows down to her core, and the mounting pleasure that drowns everything out –

She comes on Quinn's hand with a cry. Rachel collapses, boneless, and tries to remember how to breathe.

"Rachel?"

"Mmm," she says. She rolls onto her side to pull Quinn in for a kiss. "I'm here."

"Good. I was starting to worry." Quinn pecks her forehead; she lets Rachel hook her leg around her own, tangling their legs together. "You looked so gorgeous earlier."

She's already flushed and panting from her orgasm, so Rachel finds it hard to tell if Quinn calling her gorgeous has any other effect apart from making her heart flutter. "Not as gorgeous as you will be, I'm sure." She rolls her hips against Quinn's, licking her lips when she leaves a wet patch on Quinn's panties – which are already darker at the crotch…

"You're still clothed," Rachel points out.

"You were quite demanding and impatient."

"Well, now I'm demanding that you let me get you off."

Quinn flushes scarlet.

Rachel doesn't wait for her to recover. She swings her leg over to straddle Quinn, sitting up on her knees. "I'm going to enjoy every minute of this," she purrs, squeezing a bra-covered breast.

Quinn's eyes darken as she gazes up at her.

She starts slow, partly to calm her own nerves; mostly because she's Quinn, and god – she's wanted this for so long, she's forgotten what her life was without Quinn Fabray. Rachel loves how responsive she is; Quinn's breath hitches when her thumbs rub circles over Quinn's ribcage.

Rachel bends to kiss each and every silvery-white scar she can find. "You," she murmurs, "are the most amazing person I've been privileged to know, Quinn Fabray."

"Rachel…"

"Hush. This is the one and only time I should be allowed to ramble," instructs Rachel, and Quinn giggles. "I mean every word. How could I not know you like I have, and not fall in love with you?"

Quinn just shakes her head.

Rachel crawls closer to kiss her. "I've been so blind and oblivious," she says between kisses.

"We have," Quinn corrects. "But we're here now, aren't we?" She props herself up on an elbow as her other hand cups Rachel's cheek.

Smiling gently, Rachel turns her head to kiss Quinn's palm. "We are." She takes the hand in both of her own, kissing the raised skin on the knuckle, a healed wound marking where the windshield crumpled on her. "I'm sorry I made you wait."

"I'm sorry I was being dumb."

"Quinn, you're anything but dumb. A little out of touch with your feelings, maybe." Rachel places both hands flat on the bed, leaning forward so she can kiss Quinn back down. "Nothing we can't fix."

"God, that mouth of yours," groans Quinn, arching her back as Rachel's tongue brushes sensitive skin.

She laughs softly. "That meant something completely different back in school," says Rachel. She unclasps Quinn's bra and takes a nipple into her mouth, effectively cutting off whatever response Quinn was going to make.

"I want you lower," pants Quinn.

"What…?"

"Your mouth on me," she clarifies, and blushes, stuttering: "O-only if you want to, because you don't have to…"

"I do want to." Rachel slithers down Quinn's body, pushing her legs apart. "I was actually wondering how I was going to ask if I could go down on you without making it seem crass."

Quinn laughs. "You just did."

"I guess." She licks up Quinn's inner thigh, almost up to her knee; the laughter trails off into a moan. Smiling wickedly, she guides Quinn's legs over her shoulders. The first touch of her tongue to silken folds is electric. Quinn makes a strangled sound, and her heels dig into Rachel's back.

"Oh fuck."

Sleeping with Santana has improved Rachel's expertise in the bedroom by leaps and bounds, but she disregards all of it. Rachel takes her time to learn each nuance of Quinn's body. Quinn's hips thrust forward when Rachel circles her clit so she does it again, quickening her pace. Her arms curl around Quinn's thighs, holding her firmly.

"Rachel," groans Quinn. Fingers curl into Rachel's hair and pull, hard. She finds that she quite likes it, and wonders if she can get Quinn to pull her hair the next time –

Fuck, she's in love with this gorgeous and amazing woman who maybe more than likes her back (her high school self would have found her pathetic, but whatever. She's gotten more action than her). There might be a next time.

Quinn's body stiffens and she comes hard, moaning Rachel's name into her hand. Rachel's eyes never leave her face.

Once Quinn's breathing evens out, she opens her eyes. "Come here," she says, lips curving into a smile.

Rachel returns her smile. She kisses Quinn slowly, sighing when she feels fingers tugging at her hair, and a hand on the small of her back. "I like it when you play with my hair."

"I figured." She pulls at Rachel until the smaller woman lets her weight rest on Quinn, tucking her head under Quinn's. "I like it too. Playing with your hair, I mean." Quinn starts combing her fingers through her hair.

Rachel hums in contentment. "I don't think I've been this happy in a while."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. I have you now; it more than makes up for everything." As the words leave her mouth, Rachel becomes aware of their implications, and she scrambles up on her elbows so she can look Quinn in the eye. "Um. I didn't mean for it to come out like that; just because we slept together doesn't automatically constitute a relationship. We still have a lot to discuss, and I'm hoping this means that you might prove more amenable to talking…"

"Rachel, Rachel. Shhh." Quinn's expression is somewhere between amused and mortified. "I know. It's fine. Clearly we have a lot to talk about before we make a decision on whatever this is going to be – "

"That's what I said."

"– but we have time." Her fingers catch on a stray lock of Rachel's hair. "I'm not running away, anymore. I promise."

"I'm glad." Her fingers brush Quinn's chin; making ruby lips part. She knows she is an open book, her heart laid bare for all to see because she sees herself reflected in Quinn's intense gaze. In her eyes Rachel sees infinite possibilities.

She's fallen, completely.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Quinn.

"You."

"Really?"

"Cliche as it is, yes. You have the most beautiful eyes." Rachel props her head on one hand so the other can continue its exploration of Quinn's face, unhindered. She feels Quinn's hands come to rest comfortably on her hips like they've always belonged there.

"So do you."

"They're brown. Yours are… hazel-ly-greenish-goldenish. Definitely more interesting than brown."

"Your post-orgasm vocabulary is truly astounding, Rachel Berry."

Rachel arches an eyebrow in a passable imitation of the woman in front of her. "You should be taking that as a compliment to your sexual prowess, Quinn Fabray."

"You know what would be a compliment? My returning the favour."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in properly through Rachel's brain; when it does, the blood rushes straight to her face. "O-oh. That's… I've unleashed a monster, haven't I?"

"Maybe." Quinn follows the nonchalant remark with a coy smile, and Rachel promptly forgets whatever she was going to say next.

The world seems a lot brighter when she's in love.

That's the first thought that flits through her consciousness when Rachel blinks awake at her regular time. The second thought is that she woke up with Quinn practically on top of her, fingers still curled around her own. It's completely adorable; she can't help the megawatt grin that spreads over her face.

Just as she's contemplating whether she should wake Quinn up or continue to watch her sleep like a complete creeper, Quinn's eyes flutter open.

"Mmmph," says Quinn. Her expression brightens once she registers whose arms are around her. "Mornin'."

Rachel cradles her cheek to plant a kiss on her nose; Quinn scrunches it up immediately after, prompting a laugh. "I'll be back in a bit," says Rachel, climbing out of bed.

Quinn's response is muffled as she wraps her arms around a pillow and goes back to sleep.

Outside, Santana has her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. It's a sign of how close their bond is (or perhaps an indicator of how much caffeine she's consumed at this point) that she actually gives Rachel a small smile before returning to her coffee, pointing at another freshly-brewed mug steaming on the table.

It's the only thing that saves her from immediate evisceration. Rachel takes the mug with a pinched smile, and tells her so.

Santana waves a careless hand. "But it worked."

Rachel doesn't answer her.

"I guess you had a good night?" she asks dryly, then holds up a hand when Rachel opens her mouth. "No, don't answer that. It was rhetorical, and anyway most of Bushwick heard the answer all night long."

Rachel takes her head out of the fridge and rolls her eyes. "We weren't that loud."

Santana groans. "You're not even denying it. Jesus. Scar me for life, why don't you."

"Why would I deny it? You were one of the masterminds that locked us up in the first place." She lays strips of bacon into the frying pan, wincing when they sizzle and spit. "Quinn and I made love."

"Dear god."

"What, do you have something against euphemisms now, or…?"

"No – well, just yours, but – you're cooking real bacon."

Rachel looks down at the sizzling pan on the stove. "I am," she says, looking back at Santana.

"Dear god," repeats Santana, "you're completely whipped. I thought Cueball was bad, but this…"

Rachel opens her mouth to respond – and her words turn into a gasp of surprise when warm arms wrap around her waist from behind.

"You were taking too long," says the soft voice in her ear, "so I followed my nose."

Rachel laughs. She turns in Quinn's arms to kiss her properly. "Good job. You found us."

"Us?"

"You might think you're being cute by putting me over the bacon, but I know you well enough not to be offended by your priorities." She places a last kiss to Quinn's cheek before turning back to the stove. "Santana was nice enough to make me coffee, and cute enough to think that would save her from her fate. You're welcome to share it."

"Who said I'd ever rank bacon over you? Especially when you're being perfect, sharing your coffee with me." Quinn's arms don't leave her body; instead, Rachel feels Quinn press closer until she can rest her chin on Rachel's shoulder. Rachel hums in contentment and leans back briefly. "You're cooking bacon for me; therefore, you outrank bacon."

"Oh, is that how you use your Ivy League education? To sweet-talk girls?"

"Ay dios mio," says Santana loudly. She lets her head fall on the table with a thunk. "I'm right here, and I don't want to listen to your dumb flirting."

She feels Quinn bristle behind her – just like she has since they became friends – but for some reason, she feels even more touched than she normally would. Quinn has a protective streak a mile wide. Rachel's become the sappy person she never thought she'd be – and she wouldn't change a bit of it. She presses a kiss to the underside of Quinn's neck, smiling when Quinn instantly relaxes.

"Whipped," fake-coughs Santana.

"We haven't gotten that adventurous in the bedroom yet," says Rachel, sotto-voce.

Quinn blanches. "Oh, my god."

"Do you even realise what you've just done, Suzy-Q? You've signed yourself up for the all-access season ticket to the Rachel Berry Rollercoaster of Crazy. I'm talking matching cat calendars – not the fun kind of cat, even – and couple shirts. Packed lunches. The whole shebang."

"I don't mind," admits Quinn. Rachel beams and kisses her, as Santana gags in the background.

"From the sweet sounds of Santana trying to regurgitate her breakfast, I'm guessing our favourite baby lesbians finally got their act together," says Kurt, emerging from the bathroom, freshly coiffed and dressed. He turns to Santana. "Mission accomplished."

Rachel bristles when she sees him, and the way he exchanges smug smiles with Santana. But then Quinn, still smiling beatifically, whispers, "We'll get them back later," in her ear, and all her murderous rage dissipates.

They still have a lot of unresolved issues to work through, but right now, standing in her kitchen with the girl who might be what's she's been looking for all along, watching her friends/roommates/future victims laugh, things are finally looking up.